


lighten up, buttercup, get a hobby

by vinemaple



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinemaple/pseuds/vinemaple
Summary: After the encore in Boston Nolan jams his finger in between the van wall and a speaker and shouts FUCK so loud Travis can hear it from the stage where he’s roping up amp cords.--Nolan and TK are roadies for Claude's band.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 45
Kudos: 283





	lighten up, buttercup, get a hobby

**Author's Note:**

> this was spawned from the unrequited erotic feelings you get while watching roadies set up at a venue. they're much like hockeys, some are hot, most are NOT and i think that's beautiful
> 
> title from "buttercup" by hippo campus  
anyways here’s wonderwall

Nolan is slogging up the steps to his apartment after work. He’s so tired that he doesn’t feel the lock when he turns his key, but he’s not deaf so he _ definitely _ hears someone in his kitchen. Without roommates and no one he knows well enough to deserve his spare key, the first conclusion Nolan draws is robbery. 

Putting down his backpack with the exasperation of a middle schooler coming home to unexpected chores, Nolan grabs an old hockey stick from the closet and starts up the hallway. 

Turning the corner into the kitchen, he snarls, “Get the _ FUCK _ out--”

“Your fridge stinks.”

_ “G?” _ he asks with furious incredulity. The absentee godfather of Nolan’s adolescence is leaning against his kitchen counter seemingly without a care in the world. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Your sister told me where you keep the spare.”

Fucking Madison. A kinder person might have dropped the hockey stick, but Nolan’s been told multiple times that he’s a straight up_ bitch _ so he just grips tighter. “You could’ve text me you were just gonna show up. I’m not prepared to have, like, visitors.” 

“Yeah your milk’s sour, man.” Nolan whips around to see Jake Voracek’s red mane pop up behind the fridge door. “Two days past expiration.”

Nolan plants the stick on the floor, a look of disgust on his face. “Haven’t really had time to go shopping. Been busy like actually working and shit.”

“How is work, by the way?” G asks.

“It’s shit. Thanks for asking.”

“What, being a coffee boy not leading to the high life?”

“Uh, it’s called a barista and I’m only there for the tips.”

“You wanna make more?”

“What is this, a drug deal?”

“Cause you can make more with us.”

It starts to click into place. “You touring again?”

“Start Monday.”

Nolan watches Jake move from the fridge to the pantry. “Well what--what about Provy? He was gonna start doing tech.”

G scratches his beard. “Provy’s...pursuing a life of monogamy and missionary.”

Jake’s voice echoes from inside a cabinet. “Pussywhipped.” 

“We got someone else to do the lights and Sanny can help with set up,” G continues. “But he hasn’t got your ear. ‘Sides you know our stuff.”

Nolan’s mouth is a flat line. “You mean no one else will put up with you cause you’re all divas so I’m your last resort.”

“You’re our first _ and _ last resort, kid. There is no one else.”

Nolan considers them much like a cat considers an outstretched hand. “Who’s your opener?” he asks, trying not to sound overly curious, spinning the blade of the hockey stick into the floor.

Jake stops scrounging around in Nolan’s boxes of ricearoni. “Some assholes named Joel and Morgan. AV thinks they’ll merge the generational gap, whatever the fuck that means. We look old to you? Fucker.”

G gives Nolan a look and says in a completely different tone of voice, one that reeks of godfatherly intent, “It could have been you, you know.”

“Yeah, G showed me your stuff. Not bad. Doesn’t have a lot of _ umph--” _Jake thrusts his hips. “But still, not bad.” 

Nolan slides his tongue around the points of his teeth, avoiding eye contact. 

It was true. G had emailed and text him after last summer’s tour to send some demos that could be passed along to Alain Vigneault, their producer with Vorhees. But Nolan...couldn’t do it. His shit wasn’t good enough and the tracks weren’t ready. He just needed more time. 

“If I’d done that then who would you be groveling to right now?”

G folds his arms. “What do you want?” 

“I have terms. I’m not rooming with Joel and Morgan and I get to put a suspension bar up in the bus.”

G is a little too quick to agree so Nolan sees how far he can push.

“I want keys to the bus and I get to use the Fender and Gibson whenever I want.” 

Jake opens his mouth to protest, but G puts up a hand. “Fine.” 

They shake on it and Nolan feels a part of his soul departing his body. Like Ariel bargaining with the sea witch. He better not regret this. 

  
  


Where did they find him? A dumpster? Close. 

The Northridge mall last December. He did the light show for Santa Claus. Was almost arrested for pyrotechnics on the Fourth of July two summers ago at the Jersey shore. Much like Cousin Eddie from _ Christmas Vacation, _Travis Konecny radiated all the good intentions of a nuclear power plant: relatively helpful with impossible levels of energy, yet Nolan was never sure if he was seconds away from utter chaos. 

But if Nolan were honest with himself, he’d admit...it was kinda hot. The whole vibe. 

The cut off tank tops that bared Travis’s too tan arms, the slight barrel of his torso, the camoflage cargo shorts he wore with all the zippers, the pocket knife he pulled out for menial tasks that he was either too impatient for or too dumb to figure out. Nolan almost got a hard-on watching him slice open a bag of chips he couldn’t rip with just his hands. It was _ bad. _ And worst of all, he just made Nolan so damn homesick. Especially Travis’s ugly little crustache. The smattering of facial hair you only found in backwater provinces like a redneck delicacy. And in Nolan’s defense, he hadn’t been home for months. Travis was from Ontario, an import like Nolan himself. But Canadian citizenship aside, they could not have been more different.

“The sriracha ones, no. If you’re just going to appropriate the original sauce with some weak-ass version of your own, it’s like, where’s the effort, y’know.” 

Nolan is half-listening. Mostly because the topic doesn’t interest him, but also because he’s not sure if Travis is talking to him or Sanny in the next row and it’s too far along now to ask.

Nolan rattles a jumbo bottle of ibuprofen like a maraca, trying to feel if he needs to pick more up at the next gas station. Shaking three blue capsules out, Nolan is about to pop them in his mouth when he feels Travis’s hand bumping into his ribs, imploring, without stopping his endless commentary about, like, Popeye’s pepper jam sauce. As if he’s not the sole proprietor of Nolan’s headaches. Nolan gives him his and shakes more pills out with a sigh.

“The smokin’ pepper has a better flavor with the chicken strips than the barbeque. I dunno, I just feel that if you’re--” the ibuprofen clacks against Travis’s molars when he tosses them back. Nolan hands him a water bottle, but Travis brushes it off, “I can swallow, bro.” 

And Nolan’s sits for a moment like he’s just been delivered a physical blow. The capsules are under his tongue, gathering saliva and dissolving at a gross rate. He quickly sips water and gulps them. 

Travis leaves little hints like that. That he’s not...straight or whatever. Sprinkles them like fish food into the tank of Nolan’s mind. Food for thought.

Too bad Nolan doesn’t have time to ruminate on it because most days he’s so tired he only has time to run through the set list, the set up, the soundcheck, the venue, the bartender’s name and whether he’ll get booze without being carded, the hotel directions, where to tell Nisky to park the bus and then mentally tally the grams of weed he has left in the mason jar in his duffle. 

Exhaustion should really do a number on Nolan’s libido, except he’s _ twenty _ and still has time to think about Travis’s kitschy wildlife tattoo and palm himself through his sweats until he’s driven to distraction. 

This little problem forces him to double the amount of pull-ups he’s doing as a repression tactic. It’s almost working. 

It wasn’t the ‘swallowing’ statement itself that gave Nolan pause, it was the little crooked smirk that accompanied it. 

Nolan is trying not to think about it, even twenty minutes later in the middle of his _ sexual repression circuit _ in the bus aisle while Travis sits in the seat adjacent. When Nolan starts his pushups Travis uses him as an elevating footrest. The heels of his bulky construction boots dig into the soft flesh of Nolan’s back, but Nolan just breathes through his nose and gets over it. Travis asks him why he works out so much and Nolan makes him wait until he’s done with the set, then tells him a half-truth. It’s easy to hurt yourself lifting the equipment all the time, Nolan admits. It’s precautionary. And then adds, perfectly honest: “And I look fucking good, so.” Travis is quiet except for the clearing of his throat and Nolan starts another set. 

Pecs burning as he lowers, Nolan smiles into the dirt clotted carpet. 

He’s not going to do anything about it since he’s here to work and not fuck around, but it makes Nolan’s motherfucking day to know Travis is just a little uncomfortable in the same way as him. The dick-a-bit-hard, awkward-semi way.

Up in the driver’s seat Nisky shouts, “Boston on deck!”

Claude walks past in sweats and bleary eyed from sleep. Patting Nolan on the head he says, “Kev’s working the bar tonight. You better get more,” he shakes the ibuprofen. “Crazy fucker.”

“Who’s he talking about?” Travis asks when G has settled up front. 

Nolan motions Travis over in the booth, sweaty forearm shoving him back towards the window. “Someone who doesn’t ask if I’m really from Ann Arbor, Michigan.” 

Claude, like a real G (as in godfather), had shelled out the money for Nolan’s first fake last summer when he was just nineteen. In this country of America, God’s truly forsaken place, Nolan wasn’t allowed a beer after a hard day on tour. The G-father found it unacceptable. Just said, “Don’t tell your Pops. I’m supposed to be, like, teaching you solid life lessons and shit.” He’d slide a beer down the bar. It had a blue ribbon on the front. “Lesson one: American beer is piss so drink it quickly.” 

“We gonna have some fun tonight?” Travis asks, rearranging the trucker cap on his head. His hair is almost at chin-length and curls around his ears. “You gonna smile at all?”

“I’m always a good time.”

Travis knocks their knees together. “Yeah, that’s what they call you: ‘Good Time Pat.’”

After the encore in Boston Nolan jams his finger in between the van wall and a speaker and shouts _ FUCK _ so loud Travis can hear it from the stage where he’s roping up amp cords.

It starts to swell and blood crusts at the nail. 

“Stop touching it--”

“Fucking hurts.”

Travis rinses Nolan’s hand off with a water bottle over the gutter and wraps it in napkins from the bathroom and neon electrical tape because they don’t have a first aid kit.

“It’s like a tiny heartbeat.” Nolan muses to his jacked-up finger after the illustrious Kev of bartending notoriety has given him enough beer to stop him from moping. Travis kinda loves it when Nolan gets like this--voice deep and slow like molasses. A rare Patty state of mind that only happens on the edge of sleep or when he’s had at least four drinks. 

“Uh oh,” Nolan says, listing forward on the stool. “Uh oh. Trav.”

“What’s up, babe.” 

“Blood. Bloody.” Holding the pink finger up to Travis’s face, a little too close for comfort, he can see it’s bleeding through the bad tape job. 

Towing Patty by his good hand like a little tugboat they go into the bathroom. “Don’t touch anything.” It’s disgusting. Travis wishes the aforementioned Hayes’s would put a softer light bulb in here because the LEDs highlight every urine stain and pube hair.

Travis flops down the baby changing station--doesn’t even question why they have one in their fucking _ bar _ and slaps the top of it indicating Pat to sit. 

Pat’s eyes drift in and out of focus as Travis rips paper from the dispenser.

When Travis slowly peels the tape away, Nolan whines with a closed mouth. 

“S’hurts.”

“I know, babe. Shh.” 

“Fuckin’ speaker. Fuck the speaker. Fuck the... van, too.” Nolan burps beer breath into Travis’s personal bubble. Or perhaps it was Nolan’s bubble. He’s bracketed by Nolan’s thighs and the swinging of his feet. They keep hitting Travis in the back of the knees. 

“Right on, yeah.”

When he finally gets the napkin cocoon off, he sees Nolan’s nail is already blue and swollen to the first knuckle. Blood has dried in the cracks of his skin and the entire finger is pruned from sweat. 

“Jesus.”

“Hurts. I can feel my tiny heart in there. _ Bum-bum, bum.” _

“Your pulse, Pat.”

“Uhm.”

“No, don’t. That’s nasty.” Gently dragging Nolan’s fingers away from his mouth, Travis starts folding the fresh paper towels to make a new bandage.

He feels something wet on his neck and Nolan’s large bear paw is pressing into his artery. “Where are you.”

Feeling around the tendons, Travis finds his pulse and drags Nolan over, pressing down. “There.” 

“Fucker, ow.” He takes his hand away like Travis bit him.

“Here, stop. Here.” Travis wraps him up. Nolan pats him on the cheek afterwards and they go back out. Travis holds his hand then, too, so he doesn’t get lost.

  
  


Nolan keeps his demos on a harddrive, squirreled away. Works on them from his laptop on the road. 

“Whatcha working on?” Travis noses his way onto Nolan’s shoulder. The soundwaves inch across the screen. 

It’s the wee hours of the morning. They’re driving through the night and everyone is sleeping except Nolan. Travis leans against his shoulder and watches. 

Nolan shows a rare moment of vulnerability and let’s him wear the headphones to listen to a demo he’s working on. Travis is quiet and Nolan is uncomfortable and takes the headphones back, saying it’s not done yet, obviously. 

Travis goes, “Shit, dude. I didn’t know you...did stuff like this.” 

Nolan simply shrugs, is putting his headphones back on when Travis nudges his arm. “It’s really good though. Like, actually.” 

“Yeah?” Usually Nolan doesn’t ask for others’ opinions. G is too supportive cause he’s biased and Jake is too critical and wants to make it sound like what he likes. Travis is just honest.

Travis watches the timestamp drift across the screen. “I wouldn’t change a fucking thing. It’s actually…” he pauses. “Except for the snare.” 

But Nolan likes the snare, he placed it there specifically, and narrows his eyes. “No. Listen to it again.” 

Travis does, hair still fucked up from sleep and his eyes puffy, beard scruffy. “No bro,” his voice starts to rise in volume, but with a hush from Nolan he shrinks down in his seat and continues in a whisper. “It distracts from the bassline and your vocals, like when you come in with the—“ makes the noises, “then—you see what I mean.” Nolan is frowning, blank. “Dude. I’m right.” Shoves the headphones back onto Nolan’s head and doesn’t take his hands off the ears and Nolan doesn’t bat him away. Travis is leaning into him more. Breastbone up against Nolan’s arm. Nolan watches the screen and Travis watches Nolan. 

When Nolan finishes listening to the part Travis slips one headphone off and settles it behind Nolan’s ear. “See? Don’t try and layer it. You’re good enough alone.”

Nolan taps at the trackpad for a moment with his large bandaged finger, shuffling through the layers of guitar, bass, and finally deletes the snare. Edits the file _ track 4 w/o snare _and Travis stretches in his seat, pleased. 

  
  


After a gig in Seattle, Jake and Claude have a party in their hotel room. Neuvy is there, an old drummer of theirs. 

Jake tells Nolan, “Kid, time to get the fuck out of here.” 

He slaps four hundred dollars in Nolan’s palm and guides him to the door. Girls laugh and champagne pops. Travis is shepherded by Nolan’s chest out into the hallway, jumbled like a small dog under foot. Nolan flat tires him and Travis hisses. 

Nolan groans. “Jake, dude--I just want to play--”

“Play Fortnight or whatever the fuck tomorrow on the bus. Go out and have fun--Go.” He gently shoves Nolan over the threshold with his fingers. “I don’t want you in here. Pretty face and your fucking hair--all quiet and shit. It distracts the girls and _ I _ am the one getting laid tonight, so just forget about it. Go out and have fun with this fucking guy--” he motions to Travis and instead of being offended, Travis is simply resigned. “Take my fucking money and get shitfaced. I don’t want to see you back here until we have to get on the bus tomorrow.” He claps Nolan on the shoulder and starts to close the door. 

“Jakey--hey, c’mon. Don’t…” The lock clicks into place. “I can’t believe this.”

“Really? I for sure can.” Travis says, down on the floor with one finger wedged into the heel of his shoe as he tries to fit his foot back in place. He nods to Nolan’s feet, “Dude. Your laces.” 

Nolan doesn’t respond, just plods a large sausage finger into his phone screen. “Nearest bar is ten minutes away on foot.” Travis makes a noise of protest. “Uh, hello. What else are we gonna do, all my good games are in there,” he flings an arm towards the door. “Seriously, what else are we gonna do? C’mon, let’s go.” 

“Dude, your shoes are untied.” For some reason this bothers Travis. Some elementary instinct of playground safety. 

Nolan stares at Travis on hallway floor and nudges one ankle outward, like a rude Cinderella. Travis glares upwards then realizes he’s on his knees... and Nolan’s dick is like right at eye level--not that Nolan takes notice, still tapping away at his phone, tongue clamped between his teeth. And not that Travis is thinking about him like that. Quickly, he ducks his head and begins to tighten the laces, yanking them harshly. He hopes all the blood leaves Nolan’s feet and they go numb. 

The guy behind the bar doesn’t believe Nolan’s really from Ann Arbor, Michigan. 

“C’mon man, my birthday’s in a month. Do me a solid.” 

The guy doesn't do him shit and they get thrown out. 

Or Nolan gets lead by the bouncer, unnecessarily. Just because he's big doesn't mean he's gonna cause trouble. 

Travis sees the guy holding onto Nolan by the arm and, like an idiot, grabs the bouncer's shoulder and says "Hey, ease the fuck up there, bud." 

Then one thing leads to another and they're both roughly shoved out on the sidewalk.

"Nice going. Really helpful. Thank you." Nolan snips at Travis.

“He was a total douche to you. And then what? Like, what, then I’d just be by myself in there? No thanks.” 

"Whatever. Let's just go." Travis thinks he means the hotel, but they end up back at the bus.

Nolan has all the keys--to the bus, the storage, the safe, the mics, the instruments--on a fat key ring he somehow manages to keep in his back pocket despite the tight jeans. He fumbles with them for a moment before unlocking the doors.

The buzz has faded and they’re laying on the floor with their feet up on the booths of the dining table. 

Nolan is strumming idly through the chords of a song with G’s Gibson. He’s mouthing the words, lips popping over air and Travis catches only scraps. 

He asks the eternal question around here: “What’re ya playing?” 

This is where Nolan usually blanks him. But this time he answers. “Ted Hawkins.” 

“Is that someone you like grew up with? Did your parents play him or something?”

Nolan shakes his head, staring at the ceiling of the bus like it’s speaking to him instead of Travis.

Nolan’s voice is deep when he speaks, still deep when he sings. But the melody carves tiny slivers of inflection through the flat tone of his voice like wood being whittled. He’s drifting in and out of a whisper, letting the strings do most of the work.

When he’s finished and Travis can tell he’s just fucking around with the pick he asks, “What song was that?”

_ “Peace and Happiness.” _

Travis puts on his reporter voice, a caricature of Carter hovering around the band these past few weeks. “So _ Nolan Patrick, _ what does peace and happiness look like to you?”

Nolan plucks a string, eyes ferreting around on the ceiling. Sucks a deep breath into his diaphragm. Travis watches the guitar rise and fall with the motion. “Fuck if I know.” 

“That’s probably the first honest thing you’ve ever said to me, I swear to god.” 

“I said I liked your hat that one time.” He takes Travis’s snapback and puts it on his own head. “When we first met, that day in the Fillmore. You looked--” he snickers, head bobbing against the carpet. “Total fucking nerd. Your little coat--” 

The guitar is jiggling on Nolan’s stomach and it looks ridiculous.

“Don’t. They told me business casual, how was I supposed to know? This is my first big thing--Nolan. Stop fucking--” he slaps him with the back of his hand as Nolan continues to get progressively redder. Laughing so hard Travis can hear the back of his throat clicking, the sound like a telegraph. _ Can’t fucking breathe-stop-little blazer-stop-too much-stop. _ The hat’s come free of Nolan’s head and hair is spilling everywhere. 

Travis can’t help but join. He’s always been good at laughing at himself. He can take a joke, he can roll with it, no problem. But as he rocks his spine into the floor of the bus, almost pained with how tight his abdomen is convulsing, tearing up--Travis places a hand over his stomach, reflexively in laughter, but also to settle the feeling he has inside of himself. _ Stop that. We’re not doing that. Stop. _

“Hey.” Cheshire grinning into Nolan’s arm, Travis pushes him. “Hey, Patso. Will you tell me about the Claude and cop thing?”

Nolan blows air through his lips, “Not a chance. That shit’s on lock.” 

“Dude, please. It’s like everyone knows except for me.” Nolan looks smug. Even Travis shoving his shoulder doesn’t get any traction. “Come _ onnnn, _ bro. I’ll literally like suck your dick for that intel. I’ll do anything.”

“Not a fair trade if you’re into it,” Nolan scoffs. “Since you’d suck me off anyway.”

Travis cranes his neck to look at Nolan and the world slips off its axis slightly.

The light’s bad in the bus, but he’s spent too much time watching Nolan these past few weeks to not know what he looks like. Even in the dark, behind the stage with fake smoke clouding his features. That’s probably a red flag in and of itself, but like every other bad choice Travis makes--laying this close together, for instance--he ignores it. 

“I could.” He draws circles in the carpet. Grains of sand and dirt shift through the fibers, gritty against Travis’s fingertips. “If you want me to.”

Nolan head flops to face him and the sight of him full on is somehow startling. Like Travis has been caught staring, except he wants Nolan to know this time. Is tired of looking away and feigning ignorance. _Want me, too. Want me back._ _Want me like I want you: an embarrassing amount._

Even if Nolan didn’t want the same things, Travis would still blow him. Do anything.

“Kay.” So low Travis barely hears. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kneecaps grinding into the carpet, Travis hears the guitar strings whistle as Nolan sets it aside. 

Turns out when you’re quiet, you pick up on the little details of life. 

Like the slide of Travis’s hand up under Nolan’s shirt, the drag of his own tongue, cracking jaw. How Nolan tries to smother the labored tempo of his breathing, but it only makes Travis take him deeper, spit leaking out over his fingers. Because getting Nolan this worked up is like winning something. 

When Nolan yanks him by the hair as he comes--and half a second too late, Travis doesn’t say anything. Just smirks. Nolan’s belly flutters to regain possession of his breathing. “Shut up.” 

“I’m not saying shit.”

“You’re thinking shit.”

Travis wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The inseam of his pants crowds the hard rod of his mega boner. Travis sits back and on his heels, Nolan’s legs beneath him, and undos the buttons on his pants. Once in hand, Travis groans through his front teeth.

Nolan inches up on his elbows, face glowing in the dull light. Thin film of sweat along his upper lip. He hasn’t shaved and it should be gross but isn’t.

“Don’t move,” Travis whispers.

Nolan pushes himself up further like a tool until they’ve got about six inches of space between them. Just enough space to not make it, like, too gay. Except Travis is gripping and ripping his dick like a tween and then Nolan eradicates any lingering doubt when he leans into Travis’s mouth. Wet with residual drool and a little tacky with cum. Travis is so shocked, he pitches forward off his haunches. Nolan collapses backwards into the floor with a violent thud, Travis atop him. 

In the middle of taking the Lord’s name in vain, Travis cuts Nolan off with his lips and a laugh, swallowing the mumbled _ jesus christ _ and jerks himself into the press of their bodies with fast and loose urgency. Finally comes up two months of unvoiced yearning, hot and dribbling on Nolan’s stomach.

Travis isn’t religious but the blood circulating through his ears is singing something holy. And then Nolan laughs and all signs point heavenward. 

The next morning Jake walks up the stairs with a pair of sunglasses on, looking greasy and haggard. “You guys not pick up or what? Fuck.”

G comes in as they’re inching themselves stiffly off the floor of the bus. With arthritic movements Nolan and Travis prevail into upright positions. “Rough night, huh?”

Nolan cracks his neck and doesn’t look at his godfather for fear of giving anything away. “Where’s my Xbox?” he grouches at Jake. 

“Joel and Morgan are bringing everything.”

“If they--”

“They’re not gonna fuckin’ drop anything, kid. If they do, I’ll make them shit in the snowbank.” 

Travis and Nolan don’t talk with their usual frequency nor vocalization. Not like anyone else on the bus notices, all hungover to hell and back. But every so often, every thirty minutes, Nolan will bump their legs together. Travis doesn’t think it’s intentional at first, but the third time it happens he looks over and Nolan’s mouth twitches.

  
  


They often facilitate their jerk-off sessions in the bus, parked however many blocks away from the hotel. Nolan and Travis walk across avenues to the empty lot, get on and quickly get each other off. They make sure to lock back up and creep into their room silently so as not to wake Sanny and Nisky. On the off chance one wakes up, they tell him they went out for nuggets or Advil, just some tacos, man, a few drinks... anything to stave off the truth. 

They know they shouldn’t do it again. There isn’t enough room or time when they’re alone. But they persist. Because of hubris and mostly horniness and maybe because it's warm when they're together. Like holding something small to your body and feeling it breathe. And you're just a little afraid but the fear is fresh and so it becomes an afterthought. It's like that.

  
  


Nolan conserves his movements. No movement is extraneous, all his energy is used accordingly. Travis is the opposite. Navigating electrical cords with exaggerated steps, carrying some heavy speaker or drum kit from the bus to backstage with a Chaplin expression on his face. 

Nolan asking in between loads, “Got it?”

“Yeah.”

Unconvinced, he mutters, “Don’t drop it. No, it goes stage right. Stage right. Your other fucking right.”

Nolan’s really good at his job and he knows it. He has a fine ear, can tell when something’s plugged in wrong or not quite right. Off a pitch. He can hear it in people’s voices too. Can hear it in Travis’s when something’s off. He should have caught how things were changing.

  
  


The opener Joel gets the flu and is out for a week, not leaving the hotel and sleeping only under heavy doses of Nyquil on any available surface. It means they’ll miss three shows since Morgan can’t play guitar and drums at the same time. 

Jake and G call AV, but can’t get anyone to cover on such short notice. Lights go down at the venue in Philly in fifteen and Joel is sucking air into his chest so shallowly that he can’t hold a note to save his life. 

Travis is leaning against a wall, hands firmly wedged into his pockets. This is beyond him, his role is already done. Sanny’s beside him, wrapping electrical tape around an extension cord. Nolan has propped himself against the door jam, arms tucked into his armpits like some farmer just chewing wheat and waiting for deliverance day cause it’s all the same to him. Everyone is tense backstage in various stages of dress. 

Everyone except G, who looks calm. 

Claude stares at Nolan, then says “Well?” And everyone is quiet while they just stare each other down. Only Claude knows what’s going on in Nolan’s head and he’s waiting for something. 

“Whatever.” Nolan spits into the trashcan by the door then rolls his body lazily, reluctantly out the open doorway. G looks triumphant. 

Jake claps loudly into the silence of the room making Travis and Sanny jolt. “Money on the fucking board. I think he’s gonna choke. Three hundred bucks.”

Claude snorts, “Not a chance.”

Coots says, “Two Benji’s he’ll cry.”

“He’s not a crier, I’m not touching that.”

Claude’s in his boxers and he sticks one foot up on a chair, stretching. “He wets all the panties from front to back of house. Definitely getting laid tonight. Six hundo he at least gets a blowjob.” 

“Oh, fer-sure.” 

They hear the crowd cheer halfheartedly. 

Nolan’s not who they’re here to see and everyone knows it. He’s not even the opener band they don’t want to see. He’s absolutely nobody.

Nolan doesn’t introduce himself or say shit, just starts playing a few opening chords. From backstage they hear him cough into the mic a little and Jake mutters _ gonna puke. _

They hear the mic screech from all the way backstage and collectively wince. Then…

_ Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night. Now they blew up his house too... _

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jake runs a hand down his face.

Travis’s brow furrows, not registering the lyrics as quickly.

“Kid’s got _ balls.” _ Claude whistles out his pursed mouth, head cocked to listen like a hound in the woods. 

Travis is the first one through the doorway and the others follow him out to stand in the wings.

The crowd murmurs, a hundred voices all proclaiming in not so many words: _ who the fuck’s this fuckin’ guy. _

Pat doesn’t say shit to them. The hecklers, the people in the back spilling their beer to yell whatever vitriol their brain stem connects to their tongues. He just plays a bit harder, face harder still. A vastly broadcasted _ fuck you _ to everyone watching, a _ fuck you _ so loud it should have been on C-SPAN. And if there was ever a way to get Philly behind you it would be insouciance in the face of adversity. So Patty continues to drag his calloused fingers up and down the neck of the guitar like the crowd just happened to stumble upon him seated on that stool and not the other way around. Like he has every right to be there, same as them. 

Pat’s voice wavers a little in the beginning but gets stronger as it goes along. 

“Look at that fucking girl. Twenty bucks she faints.” 

“Twenty bucks she’s the one who blows him.”

“You’re on.” Travis grins. “She’s so not his type. I’ll put down fifty bucks for the dick sucking though.” Travis knows it’ll be true.

  
  


Nolan goes out the backdoor to smoke. Travis finds him out there after the boys get started in their set. 

Patty hands the joint over and it’s slightly wet in Travis’s fingers from where he kept it tucked behind his ear. His face is pink and damp in the yellow streetlight. Their breath plumes in the cold, but Pat himself looks warm like something freshly born. 

Travis folds his arms against the chill, takes a drag, gives the joint back and their fingers graze. Pat’s are trembling. 

“You were fucking great, bud. You were really...something.”

Pat looks over, eyes glazed with the weed, adrenaline, and perhaps a dollop of post traumatic stress. His mouth opens to respond, but nothing’s coming out. Just nods, lips closing over the joint instead. 

Sweat rolls incrementally down Pat’s temples where he rubs at them with a shoulder, still humming with energy. Travis really wants to kiss him but with everything that’s happened tonight, Pat’s nerves probably couldn’t handle it. So Travis bumps his forehead into Pat’s arm. “Fucking proud of you, bud.”

Turning swiftly away, he slips through the backdoor before he has to hear Pat struggle with some halting, insincere thank you. He doesn’t need to accept Travis’s admiration, just has to know it’s there.

  
  


Travis is so fucking tired and it’s not something a good night’s sleep will fix. 

It’s six a.m. in Alberta and the snow is black around the perimeter of the gas station. Stepping off the bus, his back cracks in three different places. 

The coffee doesn’t reach him and not even Claude barking his name can pierce the thick veil of exhaustion. It’s only Nolan’s fingers in the soft flesh between his shoulder blades that jolts him awake. 

Nolan takes the crappy coffee out of his fingers and presses his lips to Travis’s head, “Go pee. I’ll be out front.” Sanny’s holding the bathroom key out to him. A hub cap with a key zip tied around the spoke. 

Looking at himself in the cracked bathroom mirror, Travis meets with God and a small council of delegates within his brain. They all tell him he’s a fucking idiot, but Travis can’t help it. He wants a real bed, he wants a cat. He’s tired of shitting in a shoebox and always smelling slightly musty because none of his laundry can be washed at once. 

Pat is sitting on the curb when he comes out. Travis lowers himself next to him, concrete biting into the bones of his ass. Wordless, Nolan hands him his coffee. A blue torque is pulled down over his ears and just breaches his eyebrows. Eyelashes so thick, flecks of snow get caught and melt against the skin of his eyelids. 

“Pat.”

“It’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry.” And he is. Sorry this life can’t nourish him the way it does Patty. He’s hungry and no matter how many miles the bus swallows it’s never enough to satiate the growl in his gut. 

“Don’t be. We’re almost done.” 

Hanging his head Travis thinks about Calgary--then Edmonton--then Winnipeg and then, finally, Toronto. Fumbling through the mental math of dates and travel, Travis feels Nolan’s hand rub his back. It’s warm through his hoodie and works up onto the back of his neck. 

Expelling breath into mist, Travis says “Thanks.”

Nolan stands. “C’mon, G got doughnuts.”

“Even jelly filled?”

Nolan wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, fucko. I made sure they got your shit. C’mon.”

  
  


When they finish the tour it’s four a.m in Toronto. Nolan goes with Travis to the parking garage where they’ve kept their cars. They walk under the streetlights, one ambling in front of the other like coyotes roaming limp limbed through suburbs. Their hands jostle but never fully come together.

When Nolan opens the door to his car Travis scrunches his nose. “I can’t believe I finally get you alone and can’t fuck you in a bed. My kingdom for a soft horizontal surface.” 

Nolan laughs, already red, and they fold themselves into the backseat, hissing as their knees and spines dig into the seatbelt buckles and all Nolan’s cassettes and CDs slide around on the floor. Travis says _ fuck _ and Nolan says _ fuck me _ and they somehow manage. 

Steam collects on the windows like a cheap teen movie.

Afterwards Nolan lights up a joint and they hotbox the car. “What are you gonna do now?” 

“Dunno. Maybe work for Gudy sorting records and stuff. You?”

“Alain called. Left a voicemail. Wants to have ‘a chat.’” Nolan lets ash fall onto his thighs, the weak light from the ceiling of the car illuminating them. 

“That’s...Nolan that’s fucking incredible. It’s like really happening for you.”

“It’s just coffee.” Nolan mutters, embarrassed. 

But they both know otherwise. Carter Hart’s _ Rolling Stone _ article hit last month and more and more people cheered when Nolan went out, sometimes just to set up with Sanny. The crowd knew who he was and Travis oscillated between pride and fear. Get his fucking name out of your mouth, he wanted to yell. It doesn’t belong there. But it was already out of his control. Last time he checked (yesterday morning, in the bus bathroom like it was a dirty secret) the Philly performance already had half a million views. 

“But... I’ll see you around?” Nolan says with enough sincerity that Travis knows he doesn’t realize how big this thing’s gonna get, but Travis has been around long enough to know when Alain friggin’ Vigneault wants to grab a coffee it’s never ‘just’ anything. 

“Yeah. Course.” Like he’s just going around the corner for a carton of half-and-half. Like they’re not getting on train cars going in totally opposite directions: Nolan onward and upwards and Travis...wherever. Whatever. 

With one hand grasping the door handle but unable to pull it open just yet, Travis leans into Nolan again like a fool. It can’t be helped. 

They really shouldn’t be here like this. 

Those trysts on the road were a good time, but right now they’re seriously ruining any chance of plausible deniability. How can Travis claim it doesn’t mean shit to him when he’s breathing--gasping, really--cradling the base of Nolan’s skull like he’s something to be handled with care. Travis _ can’t _ fucking care right now. Not when they’re on different sides of the train platform. 

With effort, Travis pulls away. “I gotta go, dude. I gotta…” Travis whispers and the words fill the inch of space between them. Nolan’s hair is damp and mussed and Travis’s fingers come away wet.

Nolan leans back in the seat. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure.” But his hands are slow to move out from under Travis’s shirt. 

It’s painfully cold in parking garage when Travis finally ejects himself from the back seat of the car. His shirt and hair are wet post-coital. Everything clings to him like a bad chill. He waits for Nolan’s engine to turn over, swallowing the same dry mouthful of spit over and over. The blur of Nolan wiping the condensation from his windshield with his jacket sleeve is the only movement in the entire garage. The engine turns over again and then wheezes to life. 

Travis holds his hand up in parting or maybe for something to do because he’s so close to doing something frantic like slapping the roof of the shitty Camry to get it to stop. Doesn’t even know what he would say if he did. 

Instead of watching the tail lights disappear like some sad sack of shit he gets into his own shitty little car with his duffle and drives to his apartment. 

Once there, he coaxes the humanity back into his body with a shower and the one thousand eight hundred and twenty milligrams of sodium in a chicken ramen packet. He imagines the salt content of Nolan’s sweat in the backseat, Rorschach blots soaking through his t-shirt and Travis’s mouth on his neck, and adds another twenty milligrams of sodium to that headcount. 

At the kitchen table Travis tries to reacquaint himself with peace and quiet and a life of general stagnation. Then wonders belatedly if he’s made a mistake. 

  
  


How did they happen? There wasn’t a particular instance. It was still in the process of happening. It never stopped. Nolan couldn’t pinpoint a time when he didn’t...really fucking feel love for Travis Konecny in one capacity or another.

The first time they shook hands and Travis had to hold something in his mouth to do it. Nolan can only think back and sigh to himself because it could have started there. Or maybe it was when Travis bought Taco Bell for a homeless person in Chicago and Nolan choked back some heartless criticism because Travis was unfailing kind and to demonize that kindness was horse shit. His own fear, not a fault of Travis. 

It was happening when Nolan asked Travis a question and his response was so fucking dumb that when Nolan finally realized, minutes later, that he hadn’t been joking around, he felt something in his stomach move. Some alien creature called infatuation, or a crush or whatever. It grew over time, incubating in Nolan’s body for the whole tour. 

They were so dumb--for each other and for thinking they could get away with it, unnoticed and unfeeling. 

  
  


Nolan releases his first album two months after the tour ends. 

He squats in a studio apartment with another producer and works on his tracks with a fervor that Travis has only seen him match while playing video games. Takes erratic flights to New York to meet with the label. He’s so busy Travis only gets texts from him at odd hours of the night and with varying frequency.

Travis finds work at Gudy’s record shop and then as a stagehand at a local community theatre doing their lights. It’s nice. Steady. He tries to find people and things to keep him occupied. Skypes with his parents regularly now that he’s not working insane hours. Finds a coffee shop he likes, learns everyone’s names. Goes into the local pet adoption center more times than is probably healthy and surfs craigslist for cheap apartments that accept cats.

He’s doing good. Tries not to think about what doing great would look like because he’s pretty sure he already knows. 

Nolan comes back to the city before he gets ready to leave on tour. Asks if he can live with Travis after afterwards. “I don’t like being alone.” 

Jetlagged to hell, Nolan falls asleep fully clothed in Travis’s bed. But it’s okay. They’ve got time. It doesn’t feel like they’re rushing. Travis wants to touch him, but knowing he can do it later is exhilarating enough.

Travis hopes Nolan finds it, whatever he’s looking for out there in between hotel rooms and on the sidewalk out the backdoor where the stage light empties into the street. 

Travis remembers asking, _ Where do you go during the set? I never see you in the wings with the boys.  
_

(A part of Travis will always be there: waiting for the show to end behind the curtains, wedged amongst equipment cases, lights splashing in prismacolor so fast he goes fuzzy.)

Nolan had just said _ Backdoor. _

In the weak morning light, Travis kisses him up against the front door, grabbing the bulk of his winter coat to keep him from going just yet. “Leave the backdoor open for me.” 

_ When you’re out there, don’t forget to let me back in. _

“You know it’s always open.”


End file.
